Da Capo
by amidoh
Summary: When Smithers hits rock bottom, there's only one way to go: up. As choices have their consequences, Mr. Burns is swept along for the ride - whether or not he wants to be. Implied dubcon, implied drug use.
1. Chapter 1

Waylon Smithers bit his lip nervously, clutching the morning's financial newspaper in one unfeeling hand and balancing a breakfast tray on the other as he glanced in to the office. Mr. Burns was sitting at his desk dozing off, as he always was at the pre-coffee start of a weekday. Often, Smithers would indulge himself, allowing a minute or so to watch Burns' head droop to his chest and dreaming that he was the pillow of choice, but that was a luxury for good days. Today was definitely not a good day.

It was never pleasant to deliver bad news to Burns. There was no telling, at the very beginning of the morning, what sort of mood he would be in, or how well he would take it. Sometimes, he would dismiss the most dire of disasters with a flick of his hand, and others the slightest hiccup would result in a condescending fit of screaming and Smithers coming to what felt like the brink of losing his job.

This week... well, the sooner it could be condemned to the annals of history, the better. Burns had driven Smithers mercilessly, utterly dismissing his dedication except to snap at his imperfections. Smithers, stressed and unhappy, had in turn taken out his frustrations by being particularly harsh on plant employees, and he had heard rebellious muttering following him through the corridors as the week progressed.

He knew he should reign in his nitpicking, if only because it was foolish to hold the entire plant to the stringent standards he set for himself. _They_ didn't love their jobs or their employer in the same way he did, and they didn't feel the Wrath of Burns in the same way he did either. Burns was waspish and liable to lash out at the nearest thing when displeased; unfortunately, the nearest thing was almost always Smithers.

Heh... he didn't often think this, but TGIF.

With every cruel remark Burns hurled at him, Smithers felt the noose of unemployment threaten his neck – and that was nothing compared to the personal hurt he felt at hearing the man he would give anything to please disparage him as easily as if he were campaigning for the hated Socialists. Smithers cared for little in life as much as he cared for Burns. Fearing the consequences, he tried his best to keep this fact hidden from his employer, and had somehow been largely successful. Yes, the rarity of praise made it sound all the sweeter, but, when some of his deepest desires swirled around the man touching his cheek and whispering honeyed words in his ear, hearing Burns' sharp tongue berate him was nothing short of torture.

By nature, Smithers was a romantic, passionate dreamer, but it was hard to maintain a fantasy based on hopeful idealism when the subject could be so unpredictably hostile.

Sometimes, Mr. Burns would enter a dark mood and linger there for days on end. Sometimes, as much as Smithers loved to spend every minute in Burns' company, it took all his self control to walk onwards into whatever humiliation he would be subject to. Sometimes, it felt as though Burns knew _everything_ he was hiding, and tailored his words into perfect barbs designed to pierce where it hurt most. So far, this week had felt like one of those 'sometimes', and this morning was not shaping up to be much better.

Swallowing to steel his nerve, Smithers entered the office, his expression fixed in a conciliatory smile.

"Good morning, sir. Here's your breakfast! I've done you gull's egg omelette and waffles." He slid the tray beneath Burns' nose and unfolded the newspaper to the front page. Burns barely glanced at it.

"I wanted a baked portobello too. Where's the portobello, Smithers?" he asked irritably, picking up the fork and gingerly prodding one of the omelette slices as though testing it for explosives.

"Underneath the waffles, sir, so the juice will soften them up a little, just as you like it."

"Excellent." Burns started eating. "Mmph! You've outdone yourself this time, Smithers, this is wonderful!"

Smithers' smile became a little more genuine; compliments from Burns were uncommon, and not passed out lightly. If Burns was happy enough to appreciate his cooking, then perhaps he was in a good mood this morning...

"How are my stocks?" asked Burns through a mouthful of waffle. Smithers winced internally; it was the question he had been dreading.

"Well... not great, sir, there was a – a market wobble on the Nikkei and it's –"

Burns' eyes narrowed. "Oh, stop _blithering_. How much have I lost?"

"Um, I – well, it – at the last projection, sir, around twenty million was wiped from the va–"

Smithers ducked as a plateful of the town's most expensive omelette flew past his head, dripping hollandaise onto his jacket.

" _What!?_ " Disregarding the upended meal in front of him, Burns slammed his hands down on his desk, rising from his seat with shoulders hunched and spluttering indignantly. Though he was physically frail he still cut an imposing figure. Smithers drew away in fear.

"Don't hit me, sir!"

"Bah, you know well enough that I don't have the energy to take it out on you before elevenses!" However, one long finger hovered over the trapdoor button on the desk. Smithers noticed and swiftly stepped to the right.

"It's not a total loss, sir! There's a chance that the market will recover before this evening, and it looks like the FTSE Hundred is still –"

"I don't give a damn about your Footsie, Smithers! Next you'll be telling me that that upstart Roosevelt has won at the ballot and wiped billions off the value of child labour!"

"Um..."

"Ugh–tch–" Incandescent with rage, it was all Burns could do for a moment to sputter incoherent noises as he composed himself. "Smithers! I've lost my appetite. Take this," he indicated the half-finished breakfast tray, "and dispose of it, and then take yourself down to the hounds' kennel and let them savage you for a while."

"But–"

"Do as I say!"

With the softest of sighs, his heart in his throat and his stomach somewhere down by his knees, Smithers picked up the tray.

"Yes, sir."

oOo

The day had not improved.

By the time Smithers staggered up to his apartment door that evening, the moon was already high in the sky, half hidden behind a blanket of cloud. He was exhausted.

Quite often – most days, in fact – his work duties did not finish when the offices at the plant closed. Burns, feeble bordering on infirm, wanted assistance in almost all areas of his private life, and Smithers, desperate to spend as much time as possible with him, was all-too-willing to oblige.

Occasionally, Mr. Burns would decide he wanted to patronise one of Springfield's many upmarket eateries. Smithers enjoyed those nights, as Burns would book a table for two and, on a good day or when he was particularly pleased with Smithers' service, would even buy his meal for him. If the atmosphere was right, and with the help of a little champagne, Smithers could delude himself into pretending they were on a date. More than once, he had caught himself leaning across the table, lost in Burns' intense (if slightly confused) gaze, hoping to capture a kiss...

On the days like today when Burns did not wish to venture out, he had come to expect Smithers would prepare him a gourmet dinner. Smithers knew his cooking skills had improved exponentially through meeting Burns' demands, but it took so much energy to make a four-course meal that, by the time he got home, he barely had a chance to prepare anything worthwhile for himself and often ended up with a microwaveable canned soup or instant cup noodle. Besides, it was increasingly rare that Burns seemed to care for the dishes he poured his heart into making, and his enthusiasm to face the daily chore of feeding himself waned with each snide remark.

"What do you want," Burns had said that evening upon being presented with a stuffed partridge, clearly still seething about his financial pitfall, "a medal? Stop fishing for compliments, you mindless factotum, and get out of my sight before I really lose my temper!"

And so ended another working week.

Preparing himself a drink, Smithers checked his wristwatch. Hmm, ten thirty. Actually fairly early for him to get home on a dinner night, particularly for a Friday; generally, Burns seemed almost as reluctant to let him go for the weekend as he was to leave.

On the one hand, he was tired, but he wasn't _sleepy_. He was filled with an annoyingly frenetic well of nervous energy, and he knew that, if he dragged himself into his bed now, he would lay awake for hours brooding and over-thinking.

Running one hand through his greying hair, Waylon started up the Grinder app on his phone. He needed a quick release, without any emotional investment. He needed, just for one night, to not be Waylon Smithers, the man so hopelessly in love with Mr. Burns. At least his inability to hold down a stable relationship had left him free to seek no-commitment gratification whenever he pleased.

When it came to positions, Smithers was fairly flexible – in mind, at least, if not in body. He'd contentedly fill whichever role – or hole – was asked of him, but a slew of failed relationships and long-suffered fantasies had left him with a small yet definite preference for bottoming. He'd found the versatility useful for hook-ups.

Unenthusiastically scanning the icons which popped up, Smithers selected a few likely-looking usernames and dropped quick greetings. He wasn't picky, not tonight. Names like _hungtop129_ , _thiccboiFUX_ , _hardp0und,_ and _SUCK_M4STER_ all stood out as probably not looking for anything serious. Within half a minute he was proven right; hardp0und had replied and his message cut straight to the point.

 _hiya stats 188 6ft top u_

 _Hi. 175, 5'9" versatile._

 _lol u a twink u type like1_

 _No._ Then, as a follow-up _, I suppose closer to an otter. Early forties._

 _older than ilike bt 175 u must b slim so nvm u ok 2 btotom wld like u ride my dick_

 _I don't mind._

 _urs or mine_

 _Can you come to mine? I've been drinking so I can't drive._

 _kk can get poppers or g if u want_

 _G?_

 _ghb its gd can get u some ull go for days makes u feel gd_

 _No thank you. I'm not planning on a weekend bender. Just something quick, no strings._

 _u mind if i take ?_

 _I'd rather you didn't. Is that going to be a problem?_

 _kk np ill just bring lube then cu urs in 30mins then send ur addy_

 _Yes. I'll wait on the corner under the street lamp. See you later._

oOo

Slowly, the world came in to focus. Someone was moaning, and there was music playing in the background. As pain coursed through his entire body, Smithers realised the fretful moaning was coming from _him_. The music... the music was coming from his radio alarm. Slowly, as consciousness continued to seep into him and the room eased in to vaguely recognisable shapes, he realised he was sprawled semi-naked over the sofa in his apartment. Moving slightly, his foot came into contact with an empty bottle, which chinked softly as it rolled onto the floor.

Ah... this must be the morning after the night before.

"Urgh." Levering himself awkwardly into a sitting position and trying to ignore the wave of sickness the movement caused, Waylon groped around for his glasses. The lenses were smeared with god-knows-what and, after wiping them absently on his unbuttoned shirt, he slid them back on and grimaced. Being able to see the mess in his living room hadn't helped at all. It didn't ease the pounding behind his eyes, and his mouth still tasted of semen and stale cigarettes.

What the hell had happened? Smithers could only make out faint snippets of memory after he had met his hook-up on the street corner and returned to the apartment with him. Most of the hazy flashes involved him vomiting, and dizziness, and pain, and a feeling of – a feeling of –

Waylon scrunched up his eyes, trying to remember. It only worsened the throbbing in his poor head.

He looked around, squinting blearily through the musty daylight streaming through the open slit of his curtains. He was alone. His date – if he could even be referred to as a date – was long gone.

Slowly, Smithers stood up with the vague intention of making himself some coffee and finding his trousers, but his legs wobbled beneath him as he took several unsteady steps forward. More of the room swam into focus. There was a blanket draped halfway off the sofa close to where his feet had been. It was stained with vomit and some blood spotting. Smithers felt a swell of uncertainty grip him. Vomit was expected, especially after a heavy night, but the specks of blood were more than a little concerning. Was that _his_?

With another quiet moan, Waylon sank to his knees and held his head in his hands. God, he hadn't had a hangover like this before. Every bone in his body ached. He hadn't been _that_ drunk, had he? Yes, he'd had a knock of scotch or three to help facilitate a one night stand, but that was nothing he hadn't done before.

" _G'morning to you listeners just sleeping off last night_ ," the radio announcer was saying in a cheerful voice that, in that moment, Smithers despised. " _For the rest of us, it's a glorious sunny Sunday lunchtime_."

"Nn–what?" A sudden panic grasped Smithers through the nausea. He'd met hardp0und on _Friday_...

Where the hell had Saturday gone!?

A lump rose in his throat, which had already felt as though it was on fire. Smithers tried to swallow it down, but choked as white-hot pain seared through him. He fell to all fours as the bile rose. Sobbing for breath, Smithers heaved until long after there was nothing left to come up. Panting hoarsely, with tears streaming down his bloodless cheeks, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared blankly at the soiled carpet.

 _Calm down_ , he berated himself. _Calm down. The DJ just made a mistake. It's still Saturday._

Fumbling some underwear on, Smithers staggered back to the sofa and tried to find his phone. There was another brief moment of panic as the thought that hardp0und may have stolen it flitted into his mind, but this was quickly dispelled as he saw the corner poking out from the pocket of his discarded trousers. Blinking his vision into focus, he checked the time with trembling hands.

 _12:37pm. Sunday._

Well. _Shit_.

Clamping his hand over his mouth to try and stop himself retching again, Smithers stared at his phone's screen until it flicked off as though trying to change the display by sheer force of will. No, no, _no_...! He'd lost an entire day – how could he have lost an _entire day_?

Buried under a mudslide of anxiety, it was all he could do to crouch on the floor with his head in his hands, groaning. This made no sense. Nothing made sense. Oh God, his head was _whirling_. Where was the proof Saturday existed? Why was he missing over thirty hours of his life? How was that even _possible?_

It took several minutes for him to push himself to his feet and stagger haphazardly towards the bathroom, staring straight ahead and barely seeing anything at all.

oOo

An hour later, Smithers was sitting at his dining table nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee. After a hot shower to rinse away the smell of guilt and a long gargle of mouthwash to get rid of the last dregs of whatever he had put in his mouth, he was beginning to feel a little less like a soiled dishcloth. After pulling on his boxers and shirtsleeves and running a comb through his tousled hair, he'd washed his face again in the hopes the cold water would stop his eyes from stinging so much, but it had only been a partial success. Although he desperately needed to, he hadn't yet shaved; in his current state he didn't trust himself with anything sharp. With the way he felt, he was liable to slit his own throat even with a safety razor, and he already had too many bloodstains to clean up without taking that risk.

It had been another unpleasant surprise to find the scratch marks on his chest and the faint fingerprint bruising around his neck and collarbone - he hadn't felt them and wouldn't have noticed them at all if he hadn't caught sight of himself in the mirror. It seemed at least _someone_ had had a good time. The thought caused Smithers some measure of grim humour.

Standing in the shower, with the hot water running over his body, some of the myriad of aches had dissolved. He finally felt human again, though his head still hurt, and he couldn't yet face the thought of eating anything.

Somehow, he'd managed to find the coordination to check his cupboards and make sure that none of his belongings were missing, but it seemed that hardp0und had only been interested in sex. It was a little blessing.

Waylon sighed miserably and sipped his coffee. No matter what mental gymnastics he did to try and deny it, there was only one possible conclusion: he'd been drugged. Hardp0und had drugged him and done... whatever he had done, and had left.

The ' _whatever he had done_ ' was more than a little bothersome, if only because he couldn't remember it at all, but Smithers was angrier about the drugging. He'd made a point of refusing narcotics, and would have easily called the whole thing off if hardp0und had insisted. The concept of chemsex was not alien to Smithers and he had no problems with other people doing whatever made them happy in the privacy of their own bedrooms, but it was not something he had any interest in himself, nor would ever care to partake in. At least he had a vague idea of the night's events from the pattern of bruises on his thighs, for what cold comfort that was.

With all the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution, Waylon dragged his gaze around his apartment and cringed, gripping his mug tighter. It would take _hours_ to clean up the mess, and that was without the persistent aches in muscles he had forgotten existed. At least most of it seemed to be various belongings which had been knocked out of place. One of his sofa-side reading lamps had shattered and the shade was torn, but it had been cheap and was easily replaced.

More irritating, and certainly more upsetting, was the staggering number of stains. While no stranger to bodily fluids, Smithers thankfully was not often confronted with such an obscene amount. Most of the stains were vomit, some were probably semen, and a couple – the most worrying, in fact – were definitely blood. With a soft groan, Smithers massaged his forehead briefly. Vomit and semen were one thing, and he was far from squeamish, but he much preferred blood to remain _inside_ the body.

The vomit was almost certainly his; he doubted that hardp0und had become blackout intoxicated, and the few memories he could find of the evening almost all seemed to involve some sort of re-acquaintance with his dinner. The semen – who cared? That was the _least_ concerning aspect of all this.

The blood flecks... well, there wasn't much he could do about that, past launder the stains out and try not to think too much about it. If it _was_ his blood, as he suspected, then he had bled, and more fool him for his lack of caution. He would just have to be careful for the next few days, and keep an eye on things. Smithers was reluctant to seek medical help; there were too many embarrassing questions that could be asked and he had no particular desire to try and explain himself. He _certainly_ wasn't going to speak to the police. Their reputation amongst Springfield's gay community was better than it could be, but still not as good as it should be, and Smithers had no desire to inflict hours of Chief Wiggum's insensitive questioning upon himself.

Besides, what was there to report? Hell, he'd _consented_ to the sex (probably), though it hadn't played out quite how he'd intended. All he could report as a crime was a drugging he wasn't even certain had happened, and he'd have a hell of a time proving _that_ when Springfield's 'finest' almost certainly couldn't administer a toxicology test to save their jobs. Running one hand through his hair distractedly, Waylon sipped at his coffee again. It had gone cold.

Ugh. All he could hope for was that he'd at least had the best damn orgasm of his life. Hardp0und owed him _that_ much, at least.

For the while, though, now that his headache was finally starting to recede, it was probably time to think about making a start of cleaning up. He had his normal weekend chores to remember as well – now that he was a day down, it was only a matter of hours before he needed to get ready for work in the morning, and he was still feeling sluggish and drowsy. Perhaps if he started a laundry cycle _now_...

There was a buzzing vibration from the table. With a heavy hand, Smithers grabbed his phone and checked it, thinking it might be Mr. Burns requiring his attention and, for once, desperately hoping it was not. His throat constricted unpleasantly as he saw the notification.

It was a short message from hardp0und: _thx cutie cu soon_

As Smithers stared at it, the icon flashed briefly to indicate a new message was being typed, and his phone vibrated again as it was received. Hardp0und had sent a photograph, and the sight of it caused the bottom to drop out of Smithers' stomach altogether.

It was a shaky picture of his own face, clearly taken on a phone camera. Waylon grimaced, sickened. It wasn't the penis in his mouth which bothered him most, nor the hand tangled in his hair, nor even the fact that he had no memory at all of this photo being taken. It was his pale, lolling, bloodless face and unfocused, half-closed eyes with glasses askew. He looked dead.

Smithers shuddered. How could _anyone_ get off having sex with someone who looked – and acted – like a corpse? For all his constant questioning of his own sexual tastes, at least Mr. Burns was _alive_.

His fingers danced across the phone's screen as he typed.

 _I told you no chems. What the hell did you do to me?_

For several dragging minutes, Smithers watched the 'typing' icon flickering as hardp0und composed his reply. Then, without warning, the chat disappeared entirely.

Heh. Looked like he'd been blocked.

Sliding the phone across the table in disgust, Smithers massaged his temples with one hand. His other reached into the pocket of the jacket hanging on his chair, guiltily gripping the familiar contours of the cigarette box. Waylon had quit smoking fourteen times, and picked the habit up fifteen. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried or how many patches he used or how many months he went without the slightest craving, in times of stress his hands always reached for a cigarette. Normally, of course, 'times of stress' meant 'going against Mr. Burns' wishes,' but there was nothing normal about this weekend.

With clumsy, shaking hands, he drew one of the cigarettes into his mouth and patted down his pocket for a lighter, but, with his peripheral awareness still at worst-hangover-ever levels of impairment, he caught his elbow on the edge of the table. The carton, with its lid still open, was jolted from his loose grip, and a near-full box of smokes scattered onto the floor.

Glaring at the spilled cigarettes bad-temperedly, Smithers clenched the filter between his teeth until the pressure caused his head to hurt. For a moment, he hovered at the brink of slamming his fist down into the table out of sheer rage, but the fury subsided as quickly as it had come and, burned-out, he collapsed forward with his head in his hands, letting out a soft whimper of frustration.

He should have expected everything to go like this. It was a fitting end to a terrible week and, like Mr. Burns always implied, he only had himself to blame.

Raising his head from his hands at last, Waylon stared at his mug of cold coffee. His head felt the thought before it formed and screamed at him to stop, the ache pulsing through his temples, but he grit his teeth stubbornly.

To hell with this. He needed something stronger to drink.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning dawned far earlier than it had any right to. For the first time in an uncountable number of months, Waylon snoozed his alarm twice before managing to roll out of bed into the shower. Somehow, despite a diet of aspirin, cigarettes and alka-seltzer, and almost the entire weekend spent either asleep or unconscious, his temples stubbornly held the throbbing remnants of an ache.

In hindsight, drinking alcohol the day before had probably been unwise without knowing what drugs, if any, were still working their way out of his body. After only a half-pint of weak lager, he had been stumbling and dizzy, and had had to lie down for half an hour before he felt well enough to to walk without fainting. At least the intense drunkenness had been short-lived, and by the end of Sunday Waylon had even managed a slice and a half of very undercooked toast (or slightly crunchy bread) for his evening meal. He'd nibbled it down slowly before taking a long, hot bath with plenty of bubbles despite having already showered, and that had been the best damn decision of his life. He'd taken himself to bed at barely gone eight, feeling almost alive again but thoroughly exhausted.

After recovering from downing his half bottle of Duff Lite and running a cursory couple of internet searches to try and work out what he might have been slipped, Smithers had made a valiant attempt at tidying up his apartment, and it was back to its normal post-hookup level of disarray. He'd scrubbed most of the stains out of his sofa, at least, but the bloodied blanket had been a lost cause and had gone straight in the trash. The chore of restoring some semblance of order to his home had seemed almost insurmountable while he was still shivering on the couch after regaining consciousness, but now, at this God-awful time on a Monday morning, it was a jolly daisy-chain compared to the idea of going to work.

Staring into the mirror, Smithers adjusted his shirt collar uncomfortably. Though they were still mostly faint and indistinct, one or two patches of the mottled bruising on his neck and down onto his collarbone were now clearly recognisable as fingerprints. His first thought had been to wear one of his turtle-neck sweaters to hide the worst of it, but the change in his normal clothing would make it even more obvious. He was in no mood for unwanted questions, and even in the best case scenario a bruise on his neck would be mistaken for a hickey and lead to sniggers in the corridors – even more so if he had made such an obvious attempt to hide it.

To be fair, his collar covered most of the mark. He had considered disguising what little was visible with leftover greasepaint from his musical days... but it might rub off onto his white shirt, and that was _bound_ to draw comment. Perhaps the best thing to do was to tie his bow-tie as usual and hope Burns did not look too closely. It was hardly as though he had a ready excuse if Burns queried why he had injuries from being throttled; somehow, Smithers didn't think _'I fell down the stairs'_ would cover it.

Slowly, he traced a finger over one small patch of ugly purple, wincing slightly. Hardp0und must have used a fair amount of force to leave distinct bruises... _why_ couldn't he even remember being _strangled_?

And the thought of work... oh, Lord. For once in his life, Smithers would have done anything for the weekend to have an extra day. He was so tired, the thought of concentrating for a full day – no, a full week at the office was almost impossible. And with the demands that Mr. Burns had –

Mr. Burns –

Smithers swallowed hard and splashed cold water on his face, rubbing his eyes with one hand before reaching for the toothpaste. He didn't know how he could possibly look Mr. Burns in the eye after this weekend. How many times had Burns told him? Trusting others made you vulnerable; relationships left you weak. And that was without the nagging, hateful voice inside him which taunted _if it had been Mr. Burns and not some stranger off the internet you wouldn't have minded_.

He thrust his toothbrush into his mouth with rather more force than he intended, but there was no way to unthink it. _If it had been Mr. Burns, you would have enjoyed it_. There was a grain of truth in there that made it all the more hard to swallow. Smithers was disgusted with himself.

… Good grief, if he survived a full day in the office without either collapsing or grabbing Burns by the face and thoroughly ravishing him, it would be a blessed miracle.

oOo

There was something interminably soothing about Mr. Burns' presence. Just walking into his office, as he did every other weekday morning, Smithers felt almost peaceful despite the pain in his legs. Burns was already sitting at his desk, eyebrows knotted in a sleepy pre-coffee frown as he dozed with his cheek resting on one hand. It was so... so normal, so ordinary, so _familiar._ At that moment, the sense of relief was almost as overwhelming as the tension had been. Smithers could have hugged him.

"Mmph." Burns jolted awake in somewhat poor grace, watching his assistant grumpily. "Smithers, do you know what time it is?"

Smithers glanced at his wristwatch. "A quarter to eight, sir."

"You're fully fifteen minutes late with breakfast and the morning paper," Burns looked Smithers up and down, "and yet you're not even carrying breakfast _or_ a morning paper."

"Sorry, sir. I'll go and –"

"No no, don't bother. With the speed you're apparently travelling this morning, by the time you bring breakfast I'll be ready for luncheon. What's wrong with you today, Smithers?"

"Nothing," said Smithers firmly.

"Is this about Friday?" Burns waved a slender hand flippantly. "No need to worry about that old tosh. Two million in shares is but a drop in the ocean of Burns finance, after all."

"Twenty million, sir."

"Twe – a _large_ drop," Burns said, his eyebrows furrowing impatiently and the slightest tinge of irritation colouring his cheeks.. "Besides, the fault isn't _entirely_ yours, so I'm going to let you make it up to me by building the loss back up out of your monthly salary."

"Oh." Smithers' hands twisted together behind his back. "That's very, uh –"

"Magnanimous?"

"Well, no, not _exactly_. It's very, um, thoughtful of you. But sir, mightn't it be more sensible to wait a week or two and see if the market stabilises?" Burns stared at him. "It _has_ been quite volatile recently, and the last few, uh, hiccups have all resolved themselves, more or less. Remember, it was only two months or so ago that you were planning to recoup your losses on the Dow by locking some of the staff in the reactor and selling the extra body parts they grew? It was only a few days before your shares appreciated again."

Burns smiled gleefully and tented his fingers. "Ah, yes. That was one of my more inspired ventures. I'm surprised I let a bleeding heart liberal like you talk me out of it."

"We _would_ have had to keep them on the payroll, sir, and the union would be able to demand all sorts of compensations for things like anti-social hours and, um, corporate murder."

"Mmph, those vermin lawyers and their box-tickery."

It was... it was a normal office discussion. Well, as normal as discussions ever got in Mr. Burns' office. It was so mundane, but the ordinariness was an indescribable relief. Nothing had changed. Waylon never thought he would find routine so sweet.

As Smithers buried himself in the usual morning paperwork with as much vigour as he could muster, he felt Burns' gaze lingering upon him. He was finding it hard this morning to set his mind to a task, and concentrating under such intense scrutiny was harder still. On any other day, Waylon would have _craved_ this level of attention from his employer, but he had been hoping, just for today, to slip under the radar. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Burns tented his fingers and watched him with an expression that could almost be described as pleasant but which Waylon would readily have described as godly.

"Well, Smithers? I'm sure I shall be fascinated utterly witless by the answer, but what middle-class drudgery did you indulge yourself in over the weekend?"

Smithers hesitated, staring unseeingly at the clipboard in his hand. He hadn't expected Burns to ask about his weekend. Generally, Burns was quite content to ignore the fact that Smithers' life did indeed extend outside the plant (though, as Smithers would be the first to admit to himself, it wasn't much of his life that extended so far). Smithers could probably count the occasions that Burns had questioned him unprompted about his leisure time on the fingers of one hand. "I, uh... I met up with an old friend. Sorry, sir," he added, not at all liking the calculating look Burns was giving him, "it was a bit of a heavy night."

To Smithers' surprise, Burns started chuckling. To Smithers' even greater surprise, a bony elbow dug lightly into his ribs. "Oh, don't be so coy, Smithers! Who is the lucky lass?"

"Wh–what?"

"I wasn't born yesterday; I know that look of shame, you sly dog! You've been, aha, _knowing_ someone you shouldn't have!"

Smithers went bright red. It was all he could do for a moment to mouth like a gaping fish as no words came. For someone who was so often two sandwiches short of a picnic, Mr. Burns could show these wonderful flashes of shrewd perception; it was at these moments that it became truly clear how the man had made himself a billionaire.

"Besides," Burns added, with a wink and a roguish smirk that was one of the most attractive things Smithers had ever seen, "you've tied your bow-tie crooked."

Smithers' hands flew to his throat.

Of course, his bow-tie was tied as perfectly as it always was. He cursed himself for falling for it; how long had he spent looking in the mirror that morning, carefully making sure his clothing was immaculate?

Burns was staring at him with a knowing grin. Smithers tried to match it, giving a half-hearted little laugh. It was almost worth being tricked by the ruse and becoming stuck in this awkward conversation, just for that damn _look_ on his face. _God_ , that confidence was _beautiful_.

"Haha... very clever, sir."

"I've certainly caught you out, you young masher! Don't think you can pull one over on Monty Burns!"

"As if I'd even try, sir."

"Then who was she?"

Smithers exhaled softly. Lying came fairly easily to him nowadays after all the practise he had trying to deny his own feelings. "There wasn't a she, sir. It was just me and my, uh, friend. Who is a man."

"No she?"

"No, sir."

"You weren't biblically knowing anyone last night?"

He swallowed. "Absolutely not, sir." Well, it was _technically_ true; it hadn't been _last night_ , after all.

Burns regarded Smithers with a suspicious stare. "Are you _sure_ about that, Smithers? You're behaving very oddly today, _and_ you were late in this morning, by more than ten minutes!"

"Sir, no! I just... I drank a lot more than I meant to, and I – I'm hungover."

"Hm, is that all? I see." Burns sighed, tenting his fingers and sitting back in his chair. "I was hoping you'd pushed the boundaries a little, because you can be such a square, but I suppose it's quite reassuring to have the same old boring Smithers."

"Thank you, sir."

And, even though he knew it was pathetic, as he began to sort the paperwork on Burns' desk, Waylon could not keep the small smile from his lips at Burns calling his presence _reassuring_. Who cared if it had been nothing more than a flippant remark? Burns had said it and hopefully meant it, and the feeling was, after all, more than mutual.

oOo

Although the running of a nuclear power plant could be very involved, there were frequently long periods of time when there was very little happening at all. Quite often, during these periods of sleepy downtime, Smithers found his mind wandering to a pleasant fantasy. It was a habit that he knew he shouldn't have fallen in to, and it was proving incredibly hard to break. Sometimes, snippets of desire snuck their way into the forefront of his mind even when he was busy. Occasionally, Smithers' fantasies could get quite racy. He'd made a concerted effort to stop _those_ ones, because the only way that could end up was hugely awkward and not at all something he wanted to try and explain to Mr. Burns.

Standing in his normal place behind Burns' desk, his hands firmly in his pockets, Waylon's eyes followed the progress of Burns' pen across the page he was writing on. His gaze was drawn to those long fingers. Though age had withered Burns' hands, his fingers still retained some of the grace of his younger days, Smithers knew; he had felt them teasing his hair and dreamed of them teasing other parts of his body. If he closed his eyes, he could see Burns in front of him, reaching out to stroke his face and guide him slowly in –

The realisation that Burns was talking to him jolted Smithers out of his daydream, though the feeling of phantom fingers brushing against his cheek lingered with a hungry, desperate longing. He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears.

"– I've been thinking about it and I would like you to assume the position."

"Um..." Waylon panicked. "Which position would you like me in, sir? Over the desk?"

"What? The vacant position on the board of representatives for the next meeting, of course! We were _just_ talking about it, Smithers, where's your head?"

"I – sorry, sir," mumbled Smithers, glancing down at his shoes before fixing his embarrassed gaze at a mark on Burns' mahogany desk and trying not to think that he'd just offered to be bent over it. Thankfully, it looked as though Burns hadn't noticed the slip of innuendo, or perhaps he just hadn't understood it. Was that wishful thinking? "I'm still – like I said, it was a heavy night..."

"Hmm, yes… why don't you step out for lunch?" Mr. Burns was still regarding Smithers with a very odd expression, talking to him in the same manner a doctor might speak to the terminally ill. "The fresh air may do you good. Perhaps you should go to the park in town, though? The air around here might not be, aha, fresh enough for your needs."

"A-are you sure, sir? Are you going to be all right without me?"

"For God's sake, Smithers, stop mollycoddling me! I'm a grown man; I'm perfectly capable of rafting my own chicks _without_ your help!"

Smithers hesitated. He could point out the number of times that Burns had failed at completing even the most simple of everyday tasks – shopping for groceries came instantly to mind – but something told him that Burns would not appreciate the reminder of being institutionalised by supermarket clerks.

"Besides," added Burns, voice cold, "with your performance so far today, I'm not convinced that I would trust you to be able to manage something as complicated as _lunch._ "

Waylon's cheeks burned in shamefaced frustration and he looked away, stung by the barb. It hurt all the more for its accuracy; it was only mid-morning, but he had been nothing short of useless today and he was well aware of it.

"If you're sure, sir" his voice was barely more than a mutter, "then I'll do as you say."

oOo

Despite the chill in the air, the weather was pleasant. Sitting on a bench in Casual Encounter Park and watching the ducks on the lake, Smithers slid a cigarette from the box and lit it absently.

Clear your head, Burns had told him. That was easier said than done; Smithers had spent the past day trying to do just that, to clear his head of the fog that blurred his memory. Some short snippets had come to him during the course of the morning, but it was almost all more of the same. The only thing he could remember that didn't involve him being monstrously ill was the tiniest flash of a gruff, frustrated voice: " _Fuck's sake, Eyebrows, can't you–"_ The memory ended there, incomplete, but Waylon had a feeling that the words _just_ _take it like a bitch_ had also been involved somewhere. Hell, he couldn't even remember if _he_ had said that, or if it had been his nameless partner. It felt like a dream, or a dream of a dream.

Resting his chin on his hand, he sighed heavily, watching one of the mallards as it preened. He wanted to go back to the power plant and busy himself in _something_ , but Burns had ordered him to take a full hour for lunch instead of the usual ten minutes he was accustomed to. This morning, when he had still been dressing himself, he had thought that getting through a working day would be hard, but now it seemed like getting through a paid break might be even harder. Still, the sun felt good on his face, even if the wind was starting to pick up. If he had been indoors, in private, he may even have allowed himself a short nap, but… no, not here. Waylon's self-esteem fluctuated like a stormy sea, but he hadn't yet lost enough of his dignity to sleep on a Springfield park bench in his work clothes in the middle of the day.

Although Burns seemed to think he was out of sorts in the office, Smithers felt far less comfortable out here in public. The park wasn't that busy, not at this time on a weekday – it was mostly young mothers and their tiny offspring, or the elderly who were coming to whittle away another four hours of daylight – but every now and then someone passed, and every time Smithers shrank a little deeper into his coat.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite remember what hardp0und looked like past a vague impression of a man taller and far broader than himself. Had he been white? Hispanic? He couldn't even check grinder again to see if he had pictures up, not now he was blocked. Oh, his profile had said he was based over in Shelbyville (which, Smithers thought to himself with a brief flash of smug self-satisfaction, probably made him a Shelby-villain), but it wasn't exactly a long ride across to Springfield. The likelihood of him being in this park at this time of day was so slim, yet Smithers couldn't help the nagging doubt. What if he _was_ here? What if it was that man over there, walking past the gnarled old willow?

"What if you're just being a paranoid idiot, Waylon?" he muttered irritably to himself under his breath before taking another drag of his cigarette and stubbing the end out on the bench.

Sometimes, he would see something or hear something or smell something, and a tiny moment of vision would come back to him, brief but tantalising… but the memory was gone as quickly as it came. It felt as though everything was just out of reach on the other side of a barrier of thick fog, frustratingly close but nonetheless gone forever. Smithers' hands found their way to his pockets as he huddled down. Did it matter? Should it matter? Perhaps not knowing details was for the best; it wasn't as though a full recall would change the past. Yes, it would be nice to remember what had hopefully been at least _partially_ enjoyable sex, but there had been hook-ups before and doubtless there would be hook-ups again. In the end, hardp0und joined the line of utterly unmemorable faces Waylon had turned to when he needed to forget his emotions for the night. The only difference this time was that hardp0und had taken far more than he had given.

…. This was no good. He couldn't relax sitting out here, not when he half expected a shadowy figure to leap out of the bushes and wrap iron-strong hands around his neck. With a sigh, Waylon rose to his feet and started his steady way back to his car. Maybe if he just took a ride around town he'd feel better. Burns had told him to stay out and get some fresh air – well, gasoline exhaust fumes were about as fresh as anything else Springfield had to offer.

Honestly, as the hours ticked by, Smithers was becoming increasingly annoyed with his own inability to perform the simplest tasks to any level of competency. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop his mind wandering. He couldn't concentrate, and when he couldn't concentrate he couldn't function properly, not to the level he knew Burns expected from him. He needed to regroup, to pull himself together; hopefully, by the time he returned to the office after his extended lunch break, he would be able to better prevent his mind from wandering. After all, Burns' dissatisfaction was far worse than anything hardp0und could have done to him.

Twitching his coat collar up around his neck and pushing his glasses back up his nose, Waylon got into the car and started to drive.

oOo

Alone in his office and frustrated by multiple failed attempts to work the newfangled coffee machine without Smithers' assistance (not that he would ever _admit_ that to Smithers, of course) Mr. Burns sat back in his chair and surveyed the empty room thoughtfully. All odd behaviour aside, Smithers was certainly coy today. That said, he was never usually forthcoming with details of his personal life – he was fairly withdrawn and quite a private man by nature, it seemed – but he would usually offer up honest answers when Burns deigned to ask.

As a rule, Burns did not have much interest in his employees past whether or not they could tell their arse from their elbow without the use of a map. Smithers was the exception that proved the rule; Burns made an effort to show occasional interest in his assistant, out of deference to their history if nothing else.

Rising to his feet, Burns strode to the window and surveyed the looming cooling towers and the plant below. It would be easy to tell himself he was a busy man, with no time for meaningless drivel, and it would be just as easy to get rid of Smithers or assign him some thankless menial task in the bowels of the facility where he would be out of sight and out of mind, but Mr. Burns went where his fancy led and he was, despite himself, curious at what had riled up his normally unflappable assistant into such a state.

No matter what excuse Smithers cooked up about being drunk or hungover, Burns was almost certain his initial guess about Smithers taking someone to his bed had been right on the mark. Smithers was a man not given to loss of control and, certain situations aside, it took a lot to shake his resolve - certainly more than a hangover. Burns knew Smithers well enough to know that the man had been hungover at work a number of times before, but Smithers was far too professional to ever mention it, and he never let himself dare come in late or ask for sick leave. His behaviour today was sufficiently out-of-character for Burns to be sure a hangover, even a bad one, could not be the only cause.

Was it the mention of sex that had Smithers so out of sorts? Burns frowned thoughtfully. He was vaguely aware that most of the lower echelons of society shied away from talking about their sex lives in public. He had never been so reserved in front of Smithers and had discussed several of his fancies with him, but he couldn't ever remember Smithers talking about his own sexual escapades. He had mentioned a wife once or twice, but that had been a long time ago and as far as Burns was aware, Smithers currently lived alone. He never talked about having a family or anyone waiting for him at the end of the day. Maybe she had died? Unlikely – Smithers had never asked for time off to attend a funeral, and Burns was sure he remembered some off-hand comment about a divorce from a conversation long past. Like a perfect little drone, Smithers' very world seemed to revolve around Burns, and Burns was more than willing to exploit that for as long as Smithers continued to offer no resistance.

Burns thought back, trying to remember if Smithers had ever overtly brought up the more physical aspects of the fairer sex. It was... difficult. Smithers was still fairly young, at least compared to Burns, and he was not unattractive (unless Burns was even more out of touch with the common man than he thought). For such an eligible bachelor, Smithers rarely mentioned any sort of interest in women.

Oh! There was one time, wasn't there? What was it, what was it... Burns cursed his memory.

It had been... yes, it had been during his brief, ill-fated courtship of the Lady Bouvier, hadn't it? He suddenly had a vivid recollection of Smithers turning away from him and asking bluntly, in a voice which dripped with spite, ' _you had sex with that old woman?'_ Burns had been lost on cloud nine at the time and had been far too preoccupied with his own ecstasy to notice the insubordination, but come to think of it – Smithers had been mysteriously off during the whole debacle. It was his duty to be happy for Burns, but he had been miserable almost to the extent of being combative.

Burns could have slapped himself for not seeing it sooner. It was so obvious with hindsight – Smithers was _jealous_.

Everything started slotting neatly into place. Smithers had been _jealous_ of him. Did that mean he was interested in Mrs. Bouvier? Of course, that would certainly make sense with Smithers trying to hide who his weekend bedmate had been so desperately yet so poorly, or that he had had a weekend bedmate at all... Burns shook his head in no small amount of disbelief. Smithers? His mindless yes-man of an assistant? With _Mrs. Bouvier?_ No wonder he was being so secretive, of all the ways to ignite Burns' rage, an affair with a Bouvier was one of the most inflammable.

The harridan had left Burns at the altar in front of what felt like half the town. Now that so much time had passed, he was more humiliated than hurt, but the grudge simmered on. He had amused himself for several years by making life hell for her offspring in any number of small ways wherever his influence allowed him to do so undetected, and he still kept up pretences by sending the occasional letter threatening legal action, but the desire for true vengeance had flickered out some while ago.

While half of Burns could barely believe the conclusion he had reached, the other half of him was stubbornly convinced he had it right. If not for the fact that it was _Smithers_ , he would have terminated the man's employment right there. Loyal, devoted Smithers – he couldn't betray Mr. Burns by shacking up with the woman who had run out on him in front of a full congregation... could he?

Quietly, Burns resolved to himself to put his theory to the test. If he was wrong, he lost nothing. He would be able to amuse himself further by trying to unearth Smithers' secret – he told himself there was nothing that Smithers could keep from him for that long under direct questioning. If he was _right_... well, he would be in the market for a new executive, though it would be a blow both personally and to the company to lose Smithers' competence and long experience.

For one of the first times in his life, though he would never admit it for fear of acknowledging the ridiculous sentimentality it hinted at, Burns hoped very much that he was wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

Driving had been a good idea. He felt so much more at ease on the road than he had sitting on a bench in a park where it felt like every bush and every tree was inching closer and closer, ready to suffocate him.

Despite the early Spring chill, after about ten minutes, Waylon had rolled his car roof down. It was worth having to wrap his coat a little tighter; the wind through his hair felt _so good._ It was... cleansing, somehow, blowing away both the clouded memories and the doubts he had been having. None of it _mattered_ , not really, not when he had had one-night-stands in the past that time had eroded any recollection of. Besides, as the day passed, even those brief flashes he _could_ remember had begun slipping away, like the last shreds of a fading dream.

The frontages at the side of the road passed in a blur, interspersed with trees which were already growing their spring buds. _What's love got to do, got to do with it?_ lamented Tina from the speakers. It sounded like the station was playing yet another all-eighties marathon - it was a miracle that they could dig up enough old disco hits to have so many dedicated playlists. Waylon turned the radio up, humming along absently. _Who needs a heart, when a heart can be broken?_

Slowly, he realised he was in a comfortingly familiar neighbourhood. Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped concentrating on directions and allowed himself to just drive, and apparently he had automatically made a beeline to the Sconewall Bakery. It was one of his favourite independent shops; the pastries were truly phenomenal, and their artisan breads were expensive but unparalleled. He hadn't intended to come here today, but... Waylon parked up and checked his watch. He still had a little time before his hour was up and, even though he wasn't particularly hungry, lunch breaks _were_ intended for, well, lunch.

The range of sandwiches on offer at Sconewall was impressive, and they were well-known locally for their rainbow trout sourdoughs, but nine times out of ten Smithers would grab the firecracker chicken triple. It covered all four essential food groups: bread, meat, indistinguishable wilted green leaf, and hot sauce. Just as always, he reached for it, but as his stomach performed an unnerving somersault and grumbled in protest, he second-guessed himself. Perhaps... perhaps today, it would be best to play safe, at least until he was sure the nausea had fully gone. With a soft sigh, Smithers selected a plain cheese salad and a Diet Coke, paying up and heading back out to his car.

Perched on the driver's seat with his Coke balanced on the dash, Waylon ate his sandwich slowly. Good lord, that hit the spot! When was the last time he had managed anything that could be considered a real meal? Had he eaten on Friday evening? He couldn't quite remember. Regardless, it was amazing how much better a simple wedge of processed cheese pressed between two slices of white bread and a leaf of damp lettuce could make him feel.

… He'd protested at the time, but Mr. Burns had been right. Going outside _had_ cleared his head, to an almost remarkable degree. It was like a barely-visible haze had lifted from his mind, evaporating away in the clean-ish Springfield air. Even the sun felt brighter, blazing warmer against his face.

A thought occurred that, here in the heart of Springfield's gay quarter, he was more likely to accidentally bump into hardp0und than he had been in the park, but… as he savoured another bite of cheesy bread and listened to the sound of birdsong barely audible over the engines of passing traffic and the distant rattle of a streetcar, Smithers found himself less and less inclined to _care._ Hell, it could be the man in the checked shirt and chinos on the other side of the road, or the bear in the trilby walking past his car right now, whistling an off-key version of a recently released pop song, but so what if it _was?_ It wasn't as though there would be any sort of public confrontation - more than likely, hardp0und was just as keen to stay away from him as he was from hardp0und.

And despite what his traitorous imagination tried to suggest, what did it matter if hardp0und was bigger than him? Months of exercising for Burns and working out to soothe his own ego had left Smithers with a not-inconsiderable amount of strength well disguised by his slim frame and slightly-chubby belly. On the few occasions he had been drawn in to a fist fight, he had bested men far bigger and stronger than himself through a mixture of physical ability and guile, and it was hardly as though hardp0und would attack him unprovoked in the street. Drugging and grip-bruising aside, he hadn't shown himself inclined towards gratuitous violence or sadistic tendencies - it would have been so easy to cause real damage if he had wanted, with Smithers unconscious and at his mercy. Aside from the aforementioned bruising and some slight friction redness, Smithers hadn't found any injuries (though he had decided to ignore the scant blood speckles in his apartment; it was far easier not to think about _that_ ).

A cloud rolled by, briefly blocking out the sun. Smithers balled up the empty sandwich wrapper and put it on the passenger seat to dispose of later.

It was… inestimable, how much effect a single sandwich and a caffeinated beverage could have. Was it only half an hour ago that Waylon had been sitting on a park bench, chain-smoking and jumping with fright every time a man walked towards him? "You can be utterly pathetic sometimes," he muttered to himself through a mouthful of Coke, but, unlike similar self-directed cruel words earlier that same day, there was no malice behind it.

Taking another sip of his drink before putting the can down in the cupholder, Waylon checked his watch. Hmm, his lunch break was almost up. Time to go back and face the afternoon.

oOo

By the time Smithers arrived back at the plant and made his way up to Mr. Burns' office, Burns had discovered that one could entice the coffee machine to fulfil its life purpose by yelling an employee into the room and making them work the damn thing. He sat at his desk, cradling a mug of lukewarm disappointment, and regaling the tale to Smithers.

" - yes, big chap. Very big chap. Mountains rose and fell when he walked, Smithers, and I would swear I saw infinity in the way his blubber continuously wobbled, like a monstrous fleshy ouroboros…."

"... are you..." Smithers chanced a guess, "...are you talking about Simpson, sir?"

"Who?" asked Burns, nonplussed.

"Homer Simpson, sir. One of your meat puppets from –"

"Oh, I don't care where he's from, Smithers, he's utterly irrelevant excepting that he makes a very poor cup of coffee."

"Allow me to clean it away for you, sir."

Waylon reached towards the half-empty cup, but one bony hand waved in dismissal, stilling him instantly. Burns was peering at him, eyes narrowed.

"What's that on your neck, Smithers?"

Smithers panicked. His hands flew upwards as he stumbled for an answer, but Burns' hand was already there, reaching. How could he explain this? "It, uh – it –"

"Oh, it's only a leaf." Burns was pulling away already, his fingers gently clutching the fragile stalk of a small yellow-green leaf he had plucked from the collar of Smithers' shirt. It must have blown into him from one of the trees in the park and got caught in his bow-tie; somehow the wind from the car ride hadn't blown it away. Waylon stared at it, his legs trembling with the sudden rush of relief. Thank _God._

Burns looked at him curiously. "That was a rather extreme reaction."

It was phrased as a statement, but he clearly wanted an explanation. Smithers hesitated only briefly – he had one ready for this, at least. "Sorry, sir. I thought it might be a bee."

"A bee?"

"Yes. I'm allergic to them, remember?"

"Oh," Burns looked back at the leaf with some disinterest. "Yes, I remember. Something needlessly dramatic, as I recall."

"Uh, the stings cause me to, you know. Die."

"Yes, that's it. Needlessly dramatic."

Smithers rolled his shoulders in a shrug and clasped his hands behind his back as Burns turned to sit comfortably at his desk and return to his business papers. "If you say so, sir, but I'm sure I learned from you how to be dramatic about death."

"Wha - I - shut _up_ , Smithers."

Burns' back was turned, so he didn't see the relieved yet satisfied smile that settled on Smithers' lips.

Compared to the morning, the rest of the afternoon passed like a dream. Smithers was still in a fairly melancholy mood, and the vague taste of nausea still lingered at the back of his throat, but surviving a day in his beloved office no longer seemed like an insurmountable task and was almost, dare he hope, beginning to broach 'enjoyable'. At the end of the work day, like so many before, Burns demanded that Smithers chauffeur him home and assist in his personal affairs. Smithers was more than happy to do so, if only for the guilty pleasure of spending time alone with Burns in his mansion and enjoying the mundane domesticity of it. No matter the reason, once again, he seamlessly transitioned from 'executive assistant' to 'butler'.

The constant presence of Mr. Burns throughout his otherwise fairly nightmarish day was both a blessing and a curse; for as much as merely looking at the man set Smithers' mind at ease, Burns had such a way with words and was quick to pick up on weakness, which he would nip at relentlessly until provoking a reaction. Over the many years working for Burns, Smithers had developed somewhat of a thick skin and was not normally bothered by Burns' needling - besides, he was increasingly spared the sharp tongue, which lashed over other, more reactive victims - but in today's particularly fragile state it was hard not to take things personally.

Particularly when the object of criticism was a skill that Waylon was otherwise quite proud of, though he would be the first to admit he was no gourmet.

"I wasn't planning on dining out tonight, Smithers, but after struggling through today I am… _somewhat_ concerned that you might burn my house down if you tried to cook."

Smithers sighed. It stung, but he could hardly deny it. "An astute observation, sir."

"Yet I can't quite summon the energy to think of leaving the house and venturing to a drab watering-hole."

"Quite the dilemma, sir. I promise I'll do my utmost not to set you on fire if you wish me to prepare you something."

Burns waved his hand dismissively. "No, no, I'd rather not take that risk. If only you had a woman who could cook for us, eh, Smithers?" He narrowed his eyes calculatingly as Smithers gave an uncomfortable one-shouldered shrug. "Actually, I'm rather in the mood for something ethnic. Perhaps a curried meat of some variety?"

"Perhaps not, sir. Remember last time you ordered an Indian meal? You couldn't stop crying for hours."

"Blast it, man, I wasn't _crying!_ " Burns sniffed at Smithers, looking a little offended. "How was I to know the damned thing would be hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night?"

"Uh, you remember it had a little picture of a chilli by it, sir? That's to show it's spicy."

"What? I thought that meant it was vegetarian."

Smithers kept his expression carefully neutral. "It was a _chicken_ curry, sir."

"Yes, that's right. Chickens are vegetarian, aren't they?" Burns frowned and made a noise of dismissal. "Pft, all right, not Indian. Yet another let-down from the Raj. What about one of those Oriental-y places? They offer foods other than opium now, don't they? I could admit to a hankering for a sweetly soured noodle."

"I'll find a menu, sir."

It took far longer than it needed to for Burns to decide what he wanted, as he showed his usual disinclination to attempt anything that had even a slightly foreign-sounding name ("what's the point of the powers colonising those far-flung cesspits," he asked Smithers irritably, "if they have the audacity not to conduct their affairs in English?") Smithers, however, did not complain; it gave him a chance to consider his own choice. Usually he would opt for something drenched in Szechuan sauce, or perhaps the hot and sour soup, but with these options off the table for the day he found himself briefly stymied, trying to decide on something that would not upset his delicate, pernickety stomach.

Finally, however, after a half hour wait and a brief argument between Burns and the deliveryman over the etiquette of tipping - Smithers slipped the poor man a twenty when Burns' back was turned before slamming the door in his face - they had settled at one of the smaller dining tables in the mansion with boxes of utterly average Chinese.

"Why do you insist on eating with those knitting needles, Smithers?" asked Burns, leaning back in his chair and pushing his half-empty plate away.

"Uh, you mean the chopsticks, sir? I guess I like the authenticity."

"Too fiddly! Look at how long it's taking you to eat! If you keep meandering at this rate, I'll be dead before dessert!"

Smithers chased a slice of water chestnut around his plate. "I don't mind if you don't wait, sir."

"Probably for the best, because I wasn't planning on waiting. Now, did they pack in any of those 'fortunate cookies'? I do like the intrigue of reading the microfiche within."

Fishing around in the delivery bag for a moment, Burns found what he was looking for hidden beneath the order receipt. The fortune cookie's foil packet was easy-tear, and he disposed of it without struggle, but was quickly frustrated by the cookie itself, straining with all his might against the two sides of the tiny baked confection.

"Hhnngh! Drat it all, Smithers, rip open this starchy strongbox for me."

Smithers took the cookie and snapped it open easily, sliding the little paper slip out and handing it back to Burns. "You loosened it for me, sir."

"Yes, yes," with a dismissive wave of his hand, Burns peered at his fortune, his brow furrowing in a frown. "Well, what the devil is this supposed to mean? Oh, I can't make hide nor hair of these newfangled enigmograms."

"Hm, one of those cryptic fortunes, sir? What does it say?"

"'It's only fun when it's hard.'"

Smithers choked on his lemon chicken.

"It's patently ridiculous," Burns continued, either not noticing or, more likely, ignoring his assistant's red-faced spluttering. "Crushing my enemies is fun, but I wouldn't call it _hard._ Counting money is fun, and that's only hard if I drop a zero by accident - _really_ , Smithers, what is the matter with you?"

"Sorry, sir," said Smithers as he came up for air, eyes watering.

"What do you mean by attempting to expire over my dining table?"

"Wholly unintentional, sir, I promise."

"You've been behaving oddly all day!"

Smithers swigged his drink to ease the burning in his throat and remained silent. Curse that Mr. Burns would have one of his flashes of brilliant insight _now._

"I'll overlook this time because of your sterling performance history in my employ, but I must say, Smithers, today has shown a _shocking_ decline in the quality of your yessery."

"Sorry, sir."

"Are you ill?"

"No, sir."

"Are you losing your mind?"

"Uh," Smithers blinked and laid his chopsticks down. "Not… not to my knowledge, sir."

Burns' eyes narrowed. "Are you angling for a day off?"

"Absolutely not!"

Smithers said it with considerably more force than he intended, and Burns actually looked somewhat taken aback, the slip of fortune falling from his fingers.

"Well - just - I have no interest in your life, Smithers, and I don't want you bringing it into the office. Now, after you've cleaned up the remnants of this delectable ethnic cuisine, go home and sort yourself out, and I expect you back on your top form tomorrow. Understand?"

Quietly voicing his agreement, Smithers began to do as he was bidden, carefully avoiding meeting Burns' eye just in case he saw the look of disgusted disappointment he was sure he heard reflected in the tone of his master's voice.

oOo

After the disaster that was Monday, thankfully, things only improved. Each day that passed was easier; the aches in Smithers' body slowly subsided, the haze in his mind gradually lifted, the memories seamlessly melted away. By Thursday, even the bruises on his neck had started to fade and the redness on his thighs had gone almost completely.

It was with significantly reduced paranoia that Smithers ventured to work as the week progressed; Mr. Burns had not noticed his injuries at their peak, and he showed no signs of the slightest inkling that anything was wrong (admittedly he had been throwing increasingly odd looks at Smithers these past few days, but it seemed mostly to be whenever the conversation drifted towards women, and Waylon assumed Burns was curious about whether he was 'getting any' - he always tried to gently change the topic when it arose.)

In the evenings he had been following a routine - visit the gym for an hour or two just to get back into the habit and take out his lingering rage on the barbell, then return home to a shower, dinner if he hadn't already eaten with Burns, and tidying the last dregs of guilt out of his apartment with the radio blaring. Somehow, it was easier to detach from the situation and scrub the stains out of the carpet to a backdrop of Flashdance.

When the last cushion was plumped and dropped back into place on the sofa, Smithers stood back with his hands on his hips and surveyed his living room with an air of quiet satisfaction. _If you be my bodyguard,_ sang the radio (Waylon wondered, yet again, whether the station ever played music from any other decade), _I can be your long-lost pal -_

Ah. Finally done with cleaning. It was so insignificant a thing, yet somehow an achievement. Perhaps it was time to treat himself...

In the front of one of his kitchen cupboards, Waylon kept a box of cinnamon roll pop-tarts. He didn't often eat them as they were far too sweet for his palate to have regularly, but, every now and then when the craving hit, he would sneak one into the toaster and enjoy another of life's guilty pleasures.

To celebrate both his clean apartment and the fact that the bruises had faded to barely discoloured brown marks already, he automatically reached for his sugary vice.

The box was… upsettingly light. Smithers frowned. He knew - or he thought he knew - he had at least one packet left in there; he wouldn't have put the damn thing back in the cupboard if it was empty.

Giving the box a little shake, Waylon was rewarded with a soft noise of movement. He was right - the box _wasn't_ empty, but whatever was in there, it wasn't a pop-tart. Even more confused, he opened it up and poured the contents out on to the table.

"What the -"

Though he hadn't really known what to expect, whatever he _had_ expected, it had certainly not been the four used condoms which tumbled out onto his freshly-cleaned placemat.

Smithers _stared._ How in the _hell_ had they gotten in there? All he could think - the only possible explanation - was that the box had come out of the cupboard the other day, and one of them - either hardp0und or himself in his drugged, vacant state - had used it as a trash can after eating the last pop-tart. Somehow, instead of the garbage, it had been tidied away back into the cupboard. Smithers didn't remember seeing it, let alone tidying it up, but there was a lot he could no longer remember about that horrible zombie-like Sunday.

… Ugh. Gingerly using a piece of tissue to pick up the discarded rubbers, Smithers dropped them back into the pop-tart box and put the box out with the burnables. At least he was a little more sure now that he hadn't been barebacked, but it would have been nice if he'd managed to dispose of the evidence in a cupboard that _didn't_ contain food. What else was he going to find in the coming weeks, hidden away in odd corners? Handcuffs in the fridge? Anal beads in the lava lamp? Heaven forbid; it was probably a miracle that his obsessive tidying hadn't already unearthed something upsetting.

With a brief frown, Waylon retrieved a bottle of beer from the fridge and cracked it open on the edge of his work surface. His good mood had evaporated like spill of water on a hot plate, but it was replaced by a faint irritation rather than any sort of depression; though he knew he should probably feel _something_ about the soiled condoms in his dry goods cupboard, he was far more preoccupied with the absolute lack of pop-tart in his pantry.

What time was it now…? He'd come home from the office relatively early today - Burns had some private business dinner with one of his on-again off-again frenemies (Amadopolis perhaps?), and Smithers had been dismissed towards the start of the evening. Burns had sent him on his way after sneering something similar to ' _Honestly, Smithers, you're my assistant, not my babysitter.'_

Ah… it was already past ten. Perhaps he could head to a convenience store and pick up something sweet? Or probably he should sort dinner out for himself. Briefly, Smithers toyed with the idea of ordering a takeaway, but he quickly shot down the idea. Twice in one week was too much.

Well. He had some soup, he had some instant noodles and - check the fridge - yes, he had an onion and some elderly-looking white cabbage. Chicken noodle soup it was, then, and hopefully to spend the rest of the night relaxing in front of the television watching something utterly mindless. He'd be able to stop by the shop tomorrow, either for himself or on orders from Mr. Burns. Maybe he'd stop by Sconewall on the way home; he'd buy pastries to refill his cupboards then - maybe something a little more substantial than pop-tarts.

oOo

The long-awaited sunny Friday morning arrived like a beloved family member returning home from a long posting abroad. Mr. Burns sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk and steepled his fingers. For some reason, something that he could not figure out and did not care to try, Smithers had been clingier than usual this week. While it was certainly convenient to have Smithers so immediately at his beck and call at all times, it did make it far harder to find a moment alone and set up his test. It had taken coming in to the office early just to have some guaranteed time alone, but he had finally found what he had been looking for.

The photo had turned up buried at the bottom of one of his desk drawers, beneath a pile of forged cheques and incomplete tax declarations. It was a glossy print of Jacqueline Bouvier, taken after one of their evening recitals. He'd kept it, not out of any lingering affection, but just in case he decided that the next course of action should be to hire a hitman.

For a moment, Burns stared at the photo, frowning. His conclusion seemed almost ludicrous; how on earth could Smithers, still fairly young and not completely unattractive, be desperate enough to hold feelings for an old hag like Bouvier? Then again, what other explanation could there be for the jealousy that, in hindsight, was so very obvious?

Sighing at the complexities of youth, Burns positioned the photograph on his desk, angling it carefully so that it would be very obvious to Smithers but so it wouldn't catch his own eye too much. Despite the time that had passed, the sight of the woman was still enough to stir irritation in his chest.

It was a good half an hour before Smithers arrived. Though at least an hour earlier than he was contracted for, Smithers was still deeply apologetic when he entered the office and saw Burns already sitting at his desk. Burns waved the apology away with one hand.

"Have you eaten breakfast, sir?"

"Mm? Oh. Yes."

Was it Burns' imagination, or did Smithers look a little disappointed?

"Can I at least get you a coffee then, sir? I can use your favourite mug."

It was almost amusing, the amount of desperation in his voice. Smithers was a commodity rarely found in this world; a perfectly-trained subservient personality whose entire world seemed to revolve around eagerly yet competently fulfilling Burns' every whim and who, unusually, appeared to have no designs on claiming Burns' money or power as his own. Burns knew he would never find a better assistant.

"If you want, Smithers. The cup is on my desk."

With a vague gesture at his desk, Burns sat back in his chair and watched his assistant approach. He couldn't miss noticing it now, and hopefully his reaction would tell...

"Oh God," said Smithers, seeing the carefully-positioned photo and looking sharply back up at Burns, "that's the Bouvier lady. You're not falling for her again, are you, sir? Mr. Burns, she broke your heart!"

"Codswallop! I barely had a heart to break! Besides," his voice gained a conspiratorial tone and he stared down his beak-like nose, studying Smithers' face closely, "I hear she has a penchant for younger men."

"I doubt it, sir," Smithers gave nothing away as he studied the photograph impassively. "She left you for Abe Simpson, didn't she? He's hardly a spring chicken himself."

"Hmph! Yes, well. I was considering asking her to the club's monthly swing soirée, what do you say?"

Smithers certainly didn't look comfortable with the prospect, but he clasped his hands behind his back and shrugged. "If you want to give it another chance, sir, who am I to stand in the way of love? I just don't want to see you hurt again. I don't know what she could have been thinking to turn you down in the first place."

Blast. Indecisive. Burns steepled his fingers, peering at Smithers over the top of them.

"I was thinking of sending her a communiqué."

"A brilliant start, sir."

"I seem to recall that your endeavours on the matter last time were quite excellent and I want you to assist me."

"... fine."

Burns' lips tightened. There it was, the hint of jealousy. It was subtle, but noticeable. Smithers usually leapt at the chance to perform even the most menial of tasks; it was unusual for him to accept a command from Burns with such bad grace - but then, he had been slightly off for the whole week, hadn't he?

"Have you made a start already, sir? What do you have so far?"

"Mm? Oh, ah - well, I was thinking of starting with something suitably youthful and snappy, to re-pique her interest," Burns dug his elbow lightly into Smithers' ribs. Quite removed from his normal jovial self, Smithers just looked vaguely unsettled. "Perhaps… oh, how about 'Dearest…' uh…." he glanced at Smithers hopelessly.

"Jacqueline, sir."

"Yes, 'Dearest Jacqueline.' How's that to lead in to a display of bullish virility!"

"She'll be hooked on every word, sir," said Smithers, his tone carefully neutral.

Burns sat back, his fingers once again tenting over his desk as he regarded Smithers coolly over the top of them. "I didn't ask for your sycophantic toadying, Smithers, just your writing. Oh, and I feel like exercising a little later, so make sure it's finished before then."

Though Smithers barely glanced at him, Burns could see how uncomfortable he looked - no, was uncomfortable the right word? Or should it be unhappy? Unwilling? Was he right, then, was Smithers jealous of his rekindling a relationship with Mrs. Bouvier? But before he could think too deeply about it, Smithers had turned away, his shoulders heaving in a very slight sigh.

"Yes, sir."


End file.
